


Pieces

by Lythlyra



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-02
Updated: 2011-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lythlyra/pseuds/Lythlyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a hand that slides over his mouth, all sharp, metallic edges and the hum of lyrium where there's skin, and stills his questions. (Fenris/Anders slash)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Normanee prompted smut, so that's what this is. I imagine this takes place in the same continuity as [Unravel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/279934) and [Drift](http://archiveofourown.org/works/269875), but it stands alone just fine.
> 
> Obviousy, this ficlet is NSFW. It's also inappropriate for anyone who shouldn't be reading such content.

"Quiet."

There's a hand that slides over his mouth, all sharp, metallic edges and the _hum_ of lyrium where there's skin, and stills his questions. The two of them listen in the darkness, footsteps and voices and the clank of armor hovering, waiting, until there is finally nothing more to be heard.

"Was that--"

"Coterie," Fenris supplies as he stands, backing away and stalking the length of the clinic.

It's quiet moments before he shows up, but Anders isn't surprised that Fenris heralds trouble. The Coterie's visits are much rarer these days, almost suspiciously so.

Somewhere between Varric and Fenris, he thinks it's beginning to speak for itself.

"How long were they here?"

"Long enough."

"As incredibly helpful as always, I see."

The noise in his throat is something unreadable, neither assent nor rebuke. It only makes Anders that little bit more intrigued.

"How long have _you_ been here?"

The way he stops near the cache of crates and shelves, tense and _considering_ , is an answer all its own. Anders hears those same words echoed again: _Long enough_. It's not as infuriating as it should be.

"Fenris?"

He watches him turn at the waist -- such a natural _Fenris thing_ \-- but it's his eyes, darkened and watchful, expectant. For all that he usually doesn't, Anders gets this, gets that _this_ is one of _those moments_ when asking too much will spiral out of control.

Things are always tenuous between them, a thread away from being too much or not enough, but the thing that draws him closer, impulse and want and something much less defined, is _easier_.

Easier but not perfect.

Their lips fit, but it's more teeth than skin, than tongue; their bodies press, but the hard edges of spikes and armor dig and tear and bruise. Fenris shoves and pushes only to pull him back in, and he wonders if it's a fight, a dance, or some maddened sense of understanding.

Whatever it is, Anders _wants_ it.

The lanterns are burning low, the clinic nearly cast back into full darkness, and he thinks they'll never make it past the cots and the supply shelves when they stop to kiss and grapple, when Fenris backs him into walls and pushes up onto the tips of his toes, tracing the line of Anders' neck with his nose and _biting_ at the slope -- but they do.

The old mattress in his room -- more alcove than anything else -- barely holds the two of them, a struggle to work out of buckles, straps, leather, clothes, but when they're gone, there is heat and skin and impatient elf that rolls him and grasps to pin him.

But Anders rolls him _back_ , presses him front-first into the mattress with a knee edging into the small of his back.

It changes everything. Fenris stills, draws uneven breaths, and waits, chancing only a questioning, _challenging_ stare -- and even that is tempered when Anders finds the shape of an ear through pale, tousled hair, nipping and sucking amidst growls, amidst broken gasps.

It's a blur from there, fumbling for salve and slicking with searching fingers, but his focus sharpens -- it _grounds_ him, a force all its own -- under the slide of skin, the beginning of friction, the way, finally, the resistance fades and they meet, Anders' hips flush against the back of Fenris'.

He sees it; he _feels_ it.

It's the subtle shifts between them as they stay there, suspended, waiting. It's the way Fenris' fingers, long and lyrium-scarred, flex and dig farther into the coarse bedding. It's the press of his cheek into the mattress, lips peeled back and teeth bared, controlled but wanting. It's the beginning sheen of sweat between them.

It's his fingers grasping at Fenris' waist, drawing him up, drawing _them_ up, for that first, shuddering pull out and push in, the tremble and strain of muscles along the curve of Fenris' back -- and finally, melting into something like a rhythm.

He maps the whorls of lyrium with his mouth, tasting salt and skin and the buzz of magic made elemental. He revels in each sigh, each mutter in a language that he doesn't understand, each cant of the body beneath his that asks for _more_ without ever uttering the word, each weave of their fingers together when Fenris reaches back and interlaces them.

It's a flame that catches between them, burning a clear, consuming path, caught in its intensity. When their hands disentangle, when they trace lower and stroke Fenris in time to the beat of their hips, lacking their finesse, he knows he's lost to this.

The rush that takes Fenris is sudden and swift, but Anders knows what the hitch of breath, the quaver and jolt through his arms and legs, mean. The only thing he can think to do is follow.

So he does.

Their skin is barely cooling when Fenris curls on his side, facing away, somewhere between sleep and waking, and Anders slides into place behind him.

It won't be the same in the light of morning -- this, what they are, will bend to the point of breaking, and they'll spend more time attempting to make sense of the pieces and where they belong than they'll do anything else -- but here, between scratchy blankets and damp skin, Anders will take it for what it is.


End file.
